Blue

by L. E. DeLano

  Okay, that one hurt.

  So come and see me when you get a chance. I’ve got four more months in this place and no twenty-dollar hand cream to see me through.

  Jack

  P.S. I told somebody here about the Frito theory, and he agreed with us.

  I hold the letter in my hand for a moment, just staring at his familiar scrawl, not really reading the words. There’s an ache in my chest as my eyes begin to focus again and I can hear his voice clearly in my head as I read between the lines.

  Eventually, everybody will get tired of talking about this and life will go back to normal for you. So at least one of us gets that.

  Life will never go back to normal for any of us. My parents will always be the parents of that kid who killed a man and got off with a slap on the wrist. Sure, their friends would never be impolite enough to bring it up, but just like my friends, they’re all probably thinking it. My parents know that. They carry on like none of it ever happened, like if nobody talks about it, it’ll just go away. And I suppose it will to some degree. Eventually something juicier will happen to somebody else in their circle—an affair maybe, or a business going under. Their friends will all have something new to gossip about, but it’ll never be totally forgotten. Not by them and not by us.

  A year and a half from now, I’ll be graduating and going away to college. If I’m lucky, I’ll pick a college nobody from my school is attending and maybe nobody there will know or even care that any of this happened to my brother. A logical part of my brain knows that even here at Audubon, the whole school can’t talk about this forever. It’s already starting to fade a bit on the edges. Not fast enough for me of course, but it’s fading all the same.

  But life will never go back to normal for Jack. He might sound like he’s making jokes and just keeping his head down and getting through this, and that his life would just continue in forward motion when he goes to college and he’s away from here. But he lived that night. He lived it firsthand. He felt his car swerve, heard the squeal of the tires, and watched in horror as the other car tumbled down the incline. He made the call to 911 on his cell phone, knowing full well that he might be over the limit when the EMTs and the cops arrived. He still made the call anyway.

  And then he sat there by the car, watching as they used the Jaws of Life to pry the door apart and pull Maya’s father from the wreckage. Jack watched as they worked on her dad right there on the side of the road and continued to work on him as they loaded him into the ambulance.

  I was with my brother at the hospital when the doctor came in and told us that Maya’s father had died. I had no idea he was her father at the time—none of us did. We didn’t even know his name. They told us the dead man had a wife and three kids. I watched Jack’s face as they told him that. I watched it crumple, watched as his hands came up, pressing hard into his eyes. Watched his shoulders shake.

  Then my dad put a hand on Jack’s head, telling him softly that it was all going to be okay. They’d called the lawyer, and it was all going to be okay.

  I was sitting on a chair next to the hospital bed—they were keeping Jack overnight for observation since he had a concussion. I reached across and put my hand on his leg, just to let him know I was there. I was there for him. He dropped his hands, closed his eyes, and then reached down, sliding his fingers over mine.

  My mother put her arms around him and told him the important thing was he wasn’t badly hurt.

  I remember thinking, No, the important thing is somebody’s dead. We’re just grateful it isn’t someone we love.

  18

  "TED talks?" Maya looks at me like I grew a second nose. “What, we’re going to get up a couple of times a month and give a speech?”

  “I was thinking we could get a group of people together and we could all pick something we’re good at and give a talk about it. That’s all.” I try not to snap at her, but it’s not like she’s had any great ideas. Recycling club? How the hell do we turn that into an afternoon activity?

  “You could give a talk about basketball,” I suggest. “Everybody does a different topic every meeting and maybe we could post the talks somewhere.”

  “It’s an interesting idea.” Mrs. Ramsey taps her chin thoughtfully. “But it’s also one that’s going to need a lot of outside collaborators. First of all, you’ll have to reach out to the AV club and get someone who can run the video camera and record so that you have a quality product—we’ll want to put it on the school district website. Second, you’ll need a teacher sponsor who’s willing to review every video for content—and then that review will have to be repeated by either the principal or the vice principal to be sure nothing slips through that shouldn’t be there. We don’t want a TED talk about how to roll a joint or something coded in meme-talk that conveys hidden messages—things that might be outside the school’s code of conduct or have sexual overtones.”

  “I didn’t even think about that,” I grumble.

  “And then we have to figure out who’s going to pick the topic each session,” Maya says. “That’s bound to piss somebody off.”

  I roll my eyes. “Do you have a better idea? Besides rooting through the dumpsters to make sure nobody tossed a cardboard box or a can of Coke in there?”

  “That’s not what I said,” she protests. “This is going to take a month if you don’t decide on something soon.”

  “Me? You’re the one who turned up your nose at my pet collection idea. Who hates pets so much they won’t collect food for them to donate to shelters and food banks?”

  “I don’t hate pets,” she fires back. “I just don’t think anybody’s going to be lugging a twenty-pound sack of dog food on a bus into school with them.”

  “Which is a fair point,” Mrs. Ramsey agrees. “Maybe you could set up cash donations and go out and buy the food yourself, find a way to deliver it. We’ll come back to that one. Maya? What’s your next idea?”

  “We could do a book club.”

  Dammit. That one was on my list. Not that I want to do it, but I had to come up with something. Does her choosing it cancel it out of my list? One way to find out.

  “I’ve got that on my list too, Mrs. Ramsey,” I say.

  She breaks into an instant smile. “Well, that’s terrific! Something you both want to do. We may have this solved sooner than we thought.”

  I look over at Maya and she seems as enthused about it as I am. I bet she ran out of ideas, too.

  “We could ask Mrs. Cobb in the library for recommendations,” I offer.

  “I think we should ask other students,” Maya says. “She’s only going to recommend award-winning books about stuff like bullying and history.”

  “That doesn’t mean they’re bad books,” I retort. “Award-winning books win awards for a reason.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Because some room full of teachers and librarians decided they should.”

  “Perhaps you could do a mix of both,” Mrs. Ramsey suggests. “Get input from the library reading list and from club members. Then you’ll need to find a teacher sponsor—start with Mrs. Cobb—draw up a list of books for review, and come up with discussion questions for each book to submit to your sponsor ahead of time—”

  “We can’t just sort of talk about it?” I say. This is sounding more and more like homework. Discussion questions? I’ll be lucky if I read the damn book.

  “We could alternate meetings,” Maya says. “I’ll do the questions one time, and she can do the questions the next.”

  “Uh-uh,” Mrs. Ramsey says, shaking her head. “Collaboration, remember? You two are working on this together—all the way through. You need to come up with your discussion questions together for every meeting. You need to run the club meeting together. And then at the end of every meeting, I’ll expect a recap of what the participants liked and disliked about each book. We can publish that on the district website,
on the library page.”

  Digging through a dumpster is starting to sound more appealing. Maya must agree, since she turns to me and says:

  “What else have you got?”

  “Umm . . . I was thinking maybe a spa club? Like, we meet and try out skincare products like facemasks or lotions, or give each other manicures. Just for fun.”

  Maya raises her eyebrows and makes a rude sound. “Spa Club. That is so completely you.”

  I tense up because she’s putting me in that Rich Girl box again. And I can totally see how it would sound that way, but dammit, I’m trying to find something easy that we don’t really have to do much for. She could work with me, here.

  “It would have educational aspects,” I say in my defense. “We can talk about stress relief techniques and self-care. We could call it the ‘Audubon Oasis’ or something like that. Maybe even introduce yoga or journaling.”

  “So we’re not just talking about makeovers,” Mrs. Ramsey says. “But you do have to decide how you’re going to handle the product sampling. Is everyone expected to bring their own? Are you going to reach out to local retailers and try to get samples? Are people going to be sharing products? Because that’s a hygiene concern. Maybe we’d be better off sticking with self-care and stress remediation. But you’ll have to come up with a lesson plan every meeting.”

  I throw my pen down. “Every single idea comes with a ton of work.”

  “Seriously.” Maya’s tone echoes mine.

  “Did I say this was going to be all fun and games?” Mrs. Ramsey asks. “I want you to find something you’re both in agreement about—something that matters to both of you. If you find something you’re both passionate about, it won’t feel like work.”

  “It’s just that I’ve got so much going on—”

  Mrs. Ramsey interrupts me before I can go into it. “We’ve all got better places to be,” she says tartly. “But the two of you got yourself into this and you’re going to have to work to get through it.”

  “Well, we’re getting nowhere today,” Maya says. “Can we just go?”

  I look up at the clock and we still have twenty-five minutes left. I’d rather get this solved today than have to come back and spin our wheels over it for another hour.

  “Let’s just get it over with,” I say with a sigh.

  “Some of us have lives,” Maya snaps. “And they’d like to spend them with their remaining family members.”

  My eyes go wide. “Hey!”

  “Maya!” Mrs. Ramsey says. “We are discussing club options at the moment. Let’s not re-open old wounds.”

  Maya crosses her arms and slides down in her chair. “Just because she’s not throwing me around doesn’t mean we’re buddies now.”

  “I never said we were,” I growl back at her.

  Mrs. Ramsey leans back in her chair, rubbing her temples with her fingers. “Okay—I think we need to take this in another direction. I want both of you to spend the next ten minutes writing down a list of hobbies and interests. Let’s start there.”

  Maya groans and the word ugh spills out of my lips before I can help it. Mrs. Ramsey pushes back from the desk in her squeaky chair. “But first, since you’re both wearing sneakers today and judging by last weekend’s game, Maya’s foot is fully healed—go take a run.”

  “Huh?” I look at her like she’s nuts because she is.

  “You heard me. Get some blood flowing to those beautiful brains of yours, and run off some of that aggression. Out the front door, lap the parking lot, and then come back.”

  There’s no point in arguing, so I grab my coat and follow Maya out the door. Mrs. Ramsey stands at the doorway—I guess to make sure we’re actually doing it. The parking lot is huge and L-shaped, and once we both get around the bend, we slow down.

  Maya stops and I wonder if her foot is hurting her. I’m sure she was mostly faking—she’s walking fine and playing basketball—so maybe she’s thinking to milk it again. Still, I feel like I should say something.

  “Are you okay?”

  She gives me an annoyed look. “Yeah, and I’m not stupid. If we walk across we can cut off half of this stupid run. She can’t see us anymore.”

  I look back over my shoulder. “You’re right. Hell if I’m going to work up a sweat for her.”

  “Why can’t she just let us go home?”

  “We might as well get this finished. And by the way, I came up with spa club because I thought it would be easy. Neither one of us wants to do this, so let’s pick something that won’t take a lot of work.”

  Maya leans back against a car. “She’s going to make it a lot of work no matter what we choose. And I really need to get out of here today. I have a birthday party to plan and I don’t even know where to begin.” She makes a disgusted sound and shoves her hair back off her face.

  “For Haylee?” I ask. I know it’s not Austin’s birthday.

  “My sisters,” she says. “They’re nine and twelve and their birthdays are two days apart. I haven’t even started to plan.” She pushes off the car, and starts walking across the lot.

  “Hasn’t your mom got any ideas?”

  She whirls on me, and I realize instantly it was the wrong thing to say.

  “No, she doesn’t,” she says scathingly. “My mom spends most of her days working at my family’s shop, and the rest of the time she’s too depressed to get out of bed. Planning a party for two kids after you’ve buried their father is not even remotely on her agenda.”

  I stare at her, stunned.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say. “Seriously, I am.”

  I know life is hard for her since she lost her dad. Of course it is. I guess I just didn’t think about all of the fallout. That’s got to be hard for her little sisters, too. And now she has to step in and shoulder all of that.

  She waves me off with her hand like she doesn’t have time for me and she keeps walking.

  “I can help.” The words tumble out of my mouth, and the guilt dripping off of them instantly straightens her spine. She turns back to look at me again.

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “It’s not pity. I mean it. I can help you. I want to help you.”

  She crosses her arms and looks at me. “What? You’re going to bake a cake?”

  “No—I—what if you do Spa Club for their birthday? Like, give them makeovers, pass out some gift bags with skincare and nail care products, stuff like that?”

  She looks taken aback but then her eyes shift as she considers. “They have six friends they’re inviting over. I might be able to make that work. Maybe hit up the dollar store for some cheap face masks and makeup.”

  “Haylee could probably help you out, giving manicures and teaching them how to do their hair and stuff.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And—I can get you stuff, too.” The seed of a wild idea is growing in my brain, and the more it grows, the more I really, really like it.

  “What kind of stuff?” She asks, and then she shakes her head. “We don’t need your cast-offs.”

  “No, this is fresh product. I’ve got all kinds of stuff. My mom reps a dozen different product lines, and there’s always tons of leftovers. Clearance items. She has bins and bins full of stuff in our garage, in our closets. Usually she hands it out as giveaways for home parties, or as hostess gifts. She doesn’t even know what she’s got in there. I can go through it all and put together some gift bags for you to hand out.”

  The distrust is evident on her face. “Why would you help me?”

  “Because I want your sisters to have a good birthday,” I say. “And—” I pause, not sure how to say it so I just do. “And it’s not fair you have to do everything.”

  “I told you, I don’t want your pity.”

  “I don’t pity you.” That’s not entirely true, and the look
on her face says she knows it. But I really can help her, and I want to help her. If I can use a small amount of my mother’s ridiculous stockpile of junk, I’m even happier to do it.

  “I can pay you for it,” she says. “We’re not poor.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” I reply. “And I’m not trying to sweep in here like some privileged benefactor trying to show what a good person I am for donating some fancy products,” I tell her. “We have the stuff. It’s going to waste. And I’d rather know a group of little girls screamed and squealed and love the hell out of it then see it shoved in the tote bag of another forty-year-old woman sipping a glass of wine.”

  “This isn’t going to buy my friendship,” she says flatly.

  “Look,” I say. “We’re not friends. I’m not trying to change that. But right now, I can help you. So let me.”

  “Okay,” she finally says, blowing out a breath. “Okay. The party is Saturday, at two.”

  “Tomorrow’s Friday. I work from six to close. Have Austin bring you by, and I’ll have the stuff with me.”

  We both jump a little as we hear Mrs. Ramsey calling out our names.

  “We’d better get back inside,” I say. “She probably thinks we’re punching each other or something.”

  “It’d almost be worth waiting to see if she comes running,” Maya says. “See how she likes working up a sweat.”

  We take off in a slow jog and Mrs. Ramsey gives a wave as we come into view.

  “I’ll have Haylee bring me by,” Maya says as we turn up the sidewalk. “Austin and I aren’t together anymore.”

  “Oh?” I really don’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah. He’s kind of boring. All he talks about is sports. Are you with that Devon guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So he’s feeling better?” She asks. “I saw him at the emergency room the night I went for my foot.”

  I stop, and then force myself to keep walking. “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  Devon was at the emergency room? That would’ve been right before I was suspended. He didn’t tell me he was sick. He looked fine when I saw him.